


The Slip

by dorkilysoulless (custodian)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon Blood Addiction, Demon!Dean, Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1901679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/custodian/pseuds/dorkilysoulless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean helps Sam rejoin the junkie faithful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written initially as a one-off fill for [Hellatus Prompt Fic Tuesday](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/hellatus) on my Tumblr blog. Original link with prompt is [here](http://itfeltpurefic.tumblr.com/post/89073195699/sam-getting-seduced-by-demon-dean).

He has been careful. So careful. 

The thing about addiction is that it never actually stops. The physical experience of dependence stops, and good habits build emotional and literal distance, but addiction is forever.

Sam’s got four years and a stint in Hell’s worth of emotional distance that makes proximity manageable when he hunts. Ironically, it was Hell that probably broke him of the cravings. Nothing could ever be worse than the Cage, and everything he did to get there — all the blood — repulse him more than they attract him. 

Talk about aversion therapy.

So he should hate Dean for this. He knows that the last place he should be is chained down like Crowley in the bunker’s dungeon with his brother — his freaking brother — straddling his lap and dripping blood into his mouth. 

He wants to hate his brother. Instead, Sam just wants his brother to lower his wrist a little more so that he can close his mouth over the wound and suck.

“Greedy,” Dean murmurs, and it’s sexual — a voice Sam’s heard through paper-thin motel walls — which should repel him even more than the blood, except that’s the other thing about the blood. It makes him think of all the things he did with Ruby, and Dean isn’t exactly being brotherly unless you count the stuff in the Carver Edlund fan forums because that’s Dean’s free hand on his goddamn belt.

Sam squinches his eyes shut. The blood drips into his mouth.

“You know what it’s like. How good it feels to lose the moral compass,” Dean says. “Can you imagine how fucking amazing we’re gonna be? How bright everything is gonna burn?”

Sam startles at the sound of a knife pulled from its sheath. He opens his eyes wide when he sees Dean lick the blade’s edge. Blood wells up dark in its wake. 

So this is the way the world’s going to end, Sam thinks, and lets his will give out entirely.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean unlocks him, after. 
> 
> “I’m gonna go clean myself up.”
> 
> “Yeah. Fine,” Sam rasps. He drags his jeans up his legs and keeps his eyes down as Dean walks away. 
> 
> How the fuck is he supposed to process this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a one-off, but I got a request to continue and after some consideration figured out how to make it work. Increasingly canon-divergent and likely to get more than a little messy before the end.
> 
> Thanks as always to 51stCenturyFox for being an awesome person to throw ideas toward!

Dean unlocks him, after. 

“I’m gonna go clean myself up.”

“Yeah. Fine,” Sam rasps. He drags his jeans up his legs and keeps his eyes down as Dean walks away. 

How the fuck is he supposed to process this?

Like, okay. There are things boys do to experiment. Normal, well-adjusted boys with support systems, even. It’s just adolescence. They covered it in psych classes at Stanford, and while a lot of the guys in his class were really cagey about it in the classroom, he remembers a couple of conversations in his study group that got a little raw. 

But him and Dean...well, that’s not how they grew up. Try abnormal. Maladjusted. Isolated. 

So this isn’t the first time. There’s precedent. Just not...adult precedent. Dean moved on to women (and sometimes men, though never openly). Sam started having girlfriends. They grew up. They moved on. They forgot. And now...

“Blame the blood,” Dean had whispered after the first kiss. “Ride the high. Anything you want and everything you don’t. Come on.” 

God fucking help him, he’d gone with it.

Sam buries his face in his hands. 

There are three things Sam Winchester knows with clarity. One, that he is not in love with his brother. Two, that what he just fucked is only barely his brother on account of being both dead and a demon. Three, no matter how much he hates himself for it, if it means he can get even just a little more blood, he doesn’t really care.

His brain is going through the motions of caring. One slip doesn’t have to be a relapse. He can handle this. He can stop. He has to stop. If he doesn’t stop, who’s going to save Dean? Who’s going to save him? 

How do you save someone who likes the disease?

# # # 

The bunker is silent when Sam leaves the dungeon. Dean is either gone or holed up somewhere, and he’s grateful for the space. When he showers, his skin goes pink from the effort of scrubbing away the last of the dried blood. 

It’s good to be clean. Blank.

The kitchen is where he sees the first hints of Dean’s presence: a half-empty bottle of Beam on the table, fresh coffee, and a box of donuts. Bloody fingerprints on the refrigerator handle.

Sam pours a cup of coffee and adds bourbon for good measure. 

Drinking it is...peaceful. It dulls the edges. Enough that he can actually start to think about things pragmatically instead of just letting the dull tape of intellectual objection loop over and over in his head. 

He should to contain Dean. He should keep himself under control. He should to find a way to fix this. 

“Drinking already?” Dean breezes in, dressed only in his underwear and an open bathrobe. “Let me guess: you’re freaked out about how you fucked your dead brother and lost all your sobriety chips in the same sentence. Which, on a scale of one to ten is--”

“Shut up,” he whispers.

Dean scoffs and pours himself a cup of coffee. “Why? You wanna sit here and do sad looks instead? Or I could just unzip you and let you go to town like I did last ni--”

Sam flings his mug at Dean’s head, but his brother sidesteps at the last possible instant. 

The anger is instant, the strength in him sudden and immense. He launches himself across the table and slams Dean hard against the wall. Dean’s cup crashes to the floor. 

“Or, you know, the wall is fine.” 

He grabs Dean’s jaw and slams his head against the tile hard enough to leave a red streak. It makes his mouth water.

“Sammy, I appreciate the display, but it’s gonna take a hell of a lot more of that blood for you to hurt me.” 

Sam feels his lips pull back like an animal’s. “You want me to hurt you?” 

“You can try.” Dean tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “But wouldn’t you rather hurt the son of a bitch who did this to me?”

It takes a second for the information to click into place through the haze. 

“You’re hunting Crowley?”

Dean shrugs. “Who else? That douche has been playing us from day one.”

He pushes away, narrowly avoiding the mess of shards and coffee on the floor. There’s a dustpan somewhere. He should find it. 

Dean huffs out a breath and touches the back of his head. When his fingers come away wet he looks at Sam, licks the blood away, and winks. 

Sam turns away. “Don’t.”

“Your loss.” Dean grabs a handful of napkins. “But yeah. I’m gonna kill the King. You in?”

“Of course I’m in.” He snaps, and glares at Dean. “What do I have to do?”

“Easy,” Dean says as he picks up a fresh mug. “I need you to trust me.”


End file.
